whatever you say mrs majesty | spar

[Zjarr]

[div style="width: 45%; line-height: 14px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 13px;"]Ah, a spar! The weary demon had come to miss the little bouts with his old Clanmates, those little competitions of strength, stamina, reflexes, and strategy to keep himself sharp and on his toes in the event of engaging in actual combat, may it be a raid, fending off intruders and invaders, or simply a disgruntled brawl with some asswipe. In his home in the second realm Zjarr traveled to, spars grew excruciatingly scarce, likely for two reasons: the first being that it was a quiet and almost empty place, the second being that those who did reside in it were either quite young or merely not suited for sparring with the likes of him. He hadn't really valued the pastime for what it truly was until his chances to engage in them grew terribly thin.

The cyborg wolf knew better than to intrude on their match, so he let his build rest upon the hard floor not too far from where Roy and Bastille brawled, his heterochromatic hues gleaming amid the relative darkness. A cigarette dangled haphazardly from the male's jaws, and a prosthetic digit was lifted, the metal claw erupting with a blaze that was summoned by Zjarr himself, setting the end of the cigarette ablaze before extinguishing the little flame and setting his metal paw down, little puffs of smoke occasionally arising from the canine's direction as he watched the two quietly.

[glow=#f24b00,2,300]how'd it get so scandalous?[/glow] — ☼